


The Legend Continues

by laiqualaurelote



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Chinatown, F/M, Martial Arts, Swordfighting, Wuxia, subtle asian traits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 16:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18944353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laiqualaurelote/pseuds/laiqualaurelote
Summary: Sahra doesn’t want to be legendary swordswoman of Chinatown. She just wants to learn new skills. If that means apprenticing herself to a man who sleeps on a piece of string, never has to pay for bubble tea and generates an unnecessary amount of unresolved sexual tension, then so be it.Post-The Hanging Tree, mild spoilers for Lies Sleeping.





	The Legend Continues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forochel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/gifts).



> With whom I spent many happy hours hunting for perfect daikon in Loon Fung

Michael Cheung slept on a string.  An honest-to-goodness piece of string, stretched across the room like an empty washing line.  

 

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Sahra.

 

The lessons had been going on for a couple of months now, but this was the first time she had been in his room. Usually they practised on the roof. His room was spartan; one wall was taken up by bookshelves filled with scrolls and manuals. There was a desk and chair in a corner, a wardrobe in another. Against the wall was an ancient trunk.

 

“Hold this,” said Michael, handing Sahra the sword. Then he stepped up to the string and - for lack of a better word - _flowed_ up and onto it. He tucked his hands behind his head and hooked a calf over a knee. Then he turned to look at her and crooked an eyebrow.

 

“How long did it take you to learn that?”

 

“I’ve been able to do it since I was 15,” said Michael, sitting up on the string for all the world as if he were perched on a bench. “It’s not a bad skill. You can sleep anywhere.”

 

“I’ll bet,” said Sahra. She was impressed, which was rare, and so she was trying not to show it. Michael could tell anyway, she knew. He slipped off and she handed him back the sword. “So what if you’ve got someone over?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You know,” she said. “For a shag.”

 

There was a second in which his expression slipped - off-balance, she thought, with a dark frisson of glee - and then it was inscrutable again. “The situation has not arisen.”

 

“The legendary swordsman of Chinatown doesn’t get laid?”

 

“You know how it is,” said Michael. “Work.”

 

There was a brief silence, as they studied each other.

 

“Well.” Michael opened the door, gestured for her to go first. “ _Qinggong_. Shall we?”

 

*

 

It wasn’t like Sahra had been getting up to much in her love life. Policing took up all your time, and then some. And it wasn’t like she was awash in options, neither. She had tried Tinder and been mildly horrified by it - “DTF”, she discovered, was not “duty tax free” as she had originally thought - and men found all sorts of things to be turn-offs. If it wasn’t the job, it was the hijab. Sahra had more or less given up, and thought about it chiefly during family dinners when her mother lamented over the cambuulo how she was like to die before any of her progeny had the grace to give her grandchildren.

 

So when Michael Cheung gave her his number at the Chestnut Tree, she experienced an unreasonable amount of trepidation about calling him back, which she would rather have eaten live scorpions than admitted to.

 

Eventually she dialled the number while out on a grocery run. When he picked up, it was oddly noisy in the background. “Hello?”

 

“Hi,” she said. “It’s Sahra. Sahra Guleed.”

 

“Miss Guleed,” he said. There was a whistling sound close to the earpiece, and then a thud. “It’s good to hear from you.”

 

Sahra tucked the phone into her hijab and opened a fridge to pick up milk. “Is this a good time?”

 

“Yeah, it’s all right,” said Michael. “What can I do for you?”

 

Sahra was pretty sure some of those noises she could hear were metal on metal, and also someone was screaming in the background. Michael did not seem too bothered, though, so she went on. “Can we meet up? There’s something I want to discuss.”

 

“Of course,” said Michael. “Sunday good for you? I’ve got a - oh, fuck - sorry, one second - “ and then there was a deafening crack that nearly caused her to drop the milk and the call went dead.

 

Sahra stood moored in the aisle of the off-license and stared at the phone. She hadn’t been _hung up_ on, she told herself, clearly something had cropped up because he was, after all, “the guy in Chinatown” and that meant who knows what amount of trouble. She picked up kitchen roll, Fairy liquid and table salt and went to pay.

 

It was on the way home that her phone rang again, but it was Peter. “Hey,” he said, “this is a bit weird, but I just got this call to the Folly phone from some old lady, and she said to tell you to be at Rasa Sayang on Macclesfield Street at 1pm on Sunday. Do you know what she’s on about?”

 

“Oh,” said Sahra. “Yeah, I think I do.”

 

“What’s all this in aid of?”

 

“Confidential operation,” said Sahra. “Never you mind.” She hung up on him mid-groan.

 

Rasa Sayang was a Malaysian restaurant, which meant that most of the tourists passed it over for the neighbourhood’s more “Chinese” offerings and it was filled mostly with students. She found Michael Cheung in a corner, the sword unobtrusively tucked behind his chair.  

 

“Miss Guleed,” he said, rising as she approached. “You got my message.”

 

“Just Sahra, please.” They sat. “Your phone all right?”

 

Michael fished it out of a pocket ruefully; there was an enormous spiderweb crack running across the screen. Sahra thought she could see circuitry. “Can’t have nice things in this line of work, can we?”

 

“No,” agreed Sahra. “Does your magic fry them too?”

 

“I don’t think of it as magic,” said Michael. Food began to appear unbidden on the table - roti canai, sayur lodeh, small cups of teh tarik. Michael picked up fork and spoon, then paused as he realised she hadn’t moved to do the same. “It doesn’t apply here,” he said, “but if it makes you feel any better, you may eat and drink freely in my territory with no obligation.”

 

Sahra had simply been wondering if Michael had the same power as the Rivers, to obtain unquestioned service in any food and beverage establishment, or if everyone simply gave him free stuff in Chinatown. Peter would have known to check, she thought, and kicked herself mentally. “Thanks,” she said, and pulled a plate of spring rolls towards her.

 

“So.” Michael picked through the sambal kangkong. “What can I do for the Folly?”

 

“I’m not here on their behalf.” Sahra had consulted neither Peter nor his governor on this, and was beginning to wonder if she should have. “It’s - it’s for me.”

 

Michael leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.

 

“Your not-magic,” said Sahra. “How is it done?”

 

“ _Wugong?_ Training, mostly. Years and years. There’s a shocking amount of reading manuals. It’s a bit hard to explain in conversation.”

 

“Does it Swiss-cheese your brain?”

 

“No. Though there’s the chance of an aneurysm if you go about things the wrong way, or a heart attack, or bursting all the veins in your body. It’s all about the internal energies.”

 

“Right,” said Sahra. “I want to learn it.”

 

Michael fixed her with a stare. “That’s a big ask, Sahra Guleed.”

 

“How does it work?” said Sahra. “Do I...pay for lessons? Or owe you a favour? I can only take on personal favours, nothing that brings the Met into it.”

 

“You’ve got to - _bai wo wei shi_ , I think,” mused Michael. “Apprentice yourself to me. I don’t rightly remember how that’s done, I was 13 when it happened to me - “

 

“You were what?”

 

Michael put down his fork and grabbed her by the wrist.

 

Sahra was half on her feet, baton extended and in the air, almost before her brain caught up with what she was doing. She twisted out of his grip just as he caught the tip of her baton in his other hand, inches from his ear.

 

There was a ringing silence around them, before everyone else in the restaurant went slowly and carefully back to what they were doing.

 

“Yeah,” said Michael, gazing up at her with an analytical air, as if he hadn’t just caught a police baton mid-strike barehanded. “Yeah, I think I can work with this.”

 

He released the baton. Sahra sat back down, heart hammering.

 

“I’ll have to talk to the Nightingale,” went on Michael. “Nobody in the history of Chinatown has tried this - I don’t know what effect it’ll have on the agreement.”

 

“I don’t want to be legendary swordswoman of Chinatown,” said Sahra. “I’m not even Chinese to begin with. I just want to be a better cop, in a way that makes sense to me.”

 

“It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure,” said Michael. “Not that I really need more of that at this point in my life, as I’m sure you don’t either. Teh?”

 

*

 

“There will be an obligation,” said Nightingale. “I’m not against the idea, not wholly, but should something happen to Mr Cheung, you will be expected to fill his role until a replacement can be found.”

 

“Right,” said Sahra. She imagined this might have been the arrangement Peter had got into with Nightingale when he was first apprenticed. Not that she expected anything to happen to Michael, but then again Peter hadn’t reckoned on his governor getting shot less than a year into the job, had he?  She should probably make sure Michael got other apprentices besides her. “Fair enough.”

 

“Mr Cheung has waived the need for a favour owed,” went on Nightingale. “A relief, if curious. The project seems to hold some personal intrigue for him.”

 

“That’s - good, no?” said Sahra.

 

Nightingale gave her an appraising look. “You could say that.”

 

Before Sahra could work up to asking him what the hell he was on about, Peter came out of the Costa with everyone’s coffees. He was still disgruntled that he was hearing about all this secondhand, and had barely restrained himself from making all the sword jokes Sahra knew were just swarming on his tongue.

 

“You will not, of course, be able to move against him or Chinatown while you are under his tutelage,” went on Nightingale, as if he hadn’t just got away with being cryptic. “But it is not as if we can all be free of conflicts of interest with the demi-monde.” He looked significantly at Peter.

 

“I got you a perfectly good alliance,” retorted Peter. “It’s time our Sahra goes out and does the same, please bring honour to us all.”

 

Nightingale stared quizzically into his cup of tea. Sahra took her cappuccino from Peter and surreptitiously jabbed him in the flank for quoting Disney.

 

*

 

Training was extremely painful for the most part. It was not the “Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei”, as Sahra had been given to believe from too many Tarantino film nights, but it was so trying that Sahra often dragged herself home after a session feeling like her limbs might fall off at any step.  It was excruciating and invigorating and she hadn’t felt this alive in a long, long time.

 

The first time Michael hit her, she flew clean across the roof. Her defences had been up, but faulty - not being fluent in Chinese (yet), she was having trouble converting the manuals into movement - and she had taken the blow on her forearm, which was now a starburst of pain up to her shoulder.

 

“Shit,” said Michael, who was possibly even more startled than she was. “That did not go the way I thought it would.”

 

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” gasped Sahra, staring up at the grim afternoon sky, interspersed by cable trees and some washing. “Just give me a sec, yeah?”

 

Michael dropped down next to her and examined her arm in a clinical fashion. Having ascertained that all was well, or well as could be given the circumstances, he sat back against the wall.

 

“It’s good to know you’re not pulling your punches for my sake,” said Sahra.

 

“I _was_ pulling my punches,” said Michael darkly. “Clearly not enough.”

 

But Sahra had felt it, the raw, rippling power behind the blow. If he had meant to, he could have shattered her arm. She wanted it so badly, that kind of power, and that scared her, because she was used to moderating her want with care.

 

“Right,” said Michael. “It’s meditation the rest of today, then.”

 

Afterwards, he made her ice her arm with a packet of frozen dumplings from the freezer section in Loon Fung. “A waste of dumplings,” said Sahra. “Aren’t there peas, or something equally horrible?”

 

“I’ll boil them for supper,” said Michael. He was drinking Vitasoy straight off the shelf, with none of the cranky ladies at the check-out counter batting an eyelid, because apparently legendary swordsmen were allowed to do that. They were also, Sahra had learnt, the people who took his calls when his phone was broken, which happened often.

 

“I’m trying to imagine you doing all this,” she said, “just at thirteen.”

 

“I broke my arm the first time I jumped off a roof,” said Michael. “I thought my _qinggong_ was good enough - clearly it wasn’t - was laid up for months. _Shifu_ was cross.”

 

“Did you choose it?” Sahra wanted to know. “Or was it your parents?”

 

“My parents were _appalled_. They wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer. So imagine when a man with a sword drops in on you having lunch and tells you that your youngest is destined to be the guardian of your people and you’d better hand him over soon for tuition. Luckily I’m the third son, I was a spare. My oldest brother has a practice in Croydon and my second brother just got called to the Bar, so I think my parents have come to terms with things.”

 

“But you,” persisted Sahra. “Would _you_ have chosen it, if you could?”

 

Michael mulled this over. “At that age, it’s hard to untangle what you want from what other people want,” he said eventually. “But I don’t regret it, which is what I suppose counts.”

 

“Tough time at work?” demanded Sahra’s mother later that day, when Sahra made it home in time for a rare family dinner. She could not help favouring her arm as they cleared the table, and nothing escaped Sahra’s mother. “ _Habibti_ , I said you should take it easy on the job.”

 

“I’m a copper, mum, I’ll get nowhere if I dodge stuff.” Sahra dumped the dishes in the sink and tried not to wince too obviously.

 

There were things Michael hadn’t told her, however, and one of them became apparent when Sahra rocked up for training early one Sunday and saw an extraordinarily beautiful woman come out of Michael's room and begin descending the stairs.

 

She was wearing a qipao the colour of autumn, a red coat slung with effortless flair over a shoulder. She could have been anywhere between forty and sixty years of age. She stopped when she saw Sahra, and then she ran her gaze coolly over her from head to toe like Sahra was a possibly fraudulent work of art she had been charged with inspecting.

 

Michael came out onto the landing, saw what was happening and froze. Michael sometimes behaved like an ancient being, but in moments like this, Sahra was reminded that he was only a couple of years older than her.

 

" _Shiniang_ ," said Michael in slightly strangled tones, "this is Sahra Guleed."

 

"I see," said the woman. She spoke lilting, faintly accented English.

 

"Madam," said Sahra. This woman must be the widow of Michael's _shifu_ , and she was indubitably what Nightingale would term a practitioner. Now that Sahra was more attuned to these things, she could tell that power crackled in this woman, from her slender fingertips to her flawlessly waved hair. "It's an honour to make your acquaintance."

 

Michael’s _shiniang_ gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head in what Sahra thought might be annoyance. “We will not do this in the stairwell,” she said. “You will come greet me at mine in the proper fashion.”

 

“We’ll do that,” said Michael hastily.

 

“Eat more,” said Michael’s _shiniang_ over her shoulder. “You’re too skinny.” Then she wafted out of the door and into the street.

 

“I was hoping we could put that off for a while,” said Michael into the ensuing silence.

 

“Does she come round like that often?”

 

“No, it’s my fault,” said Michael. “I haven’t been around to see her lately. They didn’t have any children of their own, so really it was just me.” He sighed. “I hope you have a free weekend coming up, because we need to pencil in a visit.”

 

Michael’s _shiniang,_ it turned out, had a tailor shop on Lisle Street. “She could have been legendary swordswoman of Chinatown after my _shifu_ passed,” explained Michael along the way, “but she didn’t want to, she wanted to keep the shop. She’s Shanghainese old blood, you know. Most of the people around here are Cantonese. She’s always been considered a bit aloof.”

 

Michael’s _shiniang_ was at the sewing machine when they ducked into the shop. She was in casual work clothes, which for her meant an impeccable charcoal and cream cheongsam. “Sit,” she said without looking up from her work, gesturing imperiously at the carved stools and faux marble table at the other end of the shop. “Michael, get tea.”

 

Michael went to fetch the tea in the backroom. Sahra cast her gaze around the shop, the shelves of which were stuffed full of not just bolts but scraps of cloth, odds and ends. Michael’s _shiniang_ , it seemed, was the kind of person who never threw anything away. Sahra’s mother was like that. There was something about having to abandon everything you owned overnight and start again someplace new that made inveterate hoarders of people.

 

Michael’s _shiniang_ finished up a stitch and came over. Sahra hastily proffered the basket of fruit she had brought - fruit, she figured, was usually a safe bet when it came to paying one’s respects - and said, “This is for you, _shipo_.”

 

“Oh, don’t start with that,” said Michael’s _shiniang._ “I refuse to be thought old enough to be anyone’s _shipo_. You will call me Madam Fang. You shouldn’t have brought all this fruit. Who has time to eat fruit these days?”

 

Sahra, at a loss, left the fruit on the table. Michael returned with the tea, poured some for everyone and took the stool by Sahra. Madam Fang raised the tea to her face, breathed it in, and sipped. Then she lowered it and regarded them critically for close to a minute.

 

Sahra tried not to fidget.

 

“You must know I did not approve of Michael taking you as an apprentice,” said Madam Fang after this long, unnerving pause. “It is not that you are _wairen_ , or even _huijiaotu_ \- none of that should have any bearing on your practice - but he is too young to be a teacher, and you are too old to be a student. One need not look at the works of Jin Yong to know how _that_ will go.”

 

Sahra, not following, tried to keep smiling politely.

 

“This isn’t Legend of the Condor Heroes, _shiniang_ ,” said Michael with thinly concealed exasperation. “I’m not going to pull a Yang Guo.”

 

“No, if anything you are a Xiaolongnü,” said Madam Fang dismissively. “No matter - the thing has been done, the compact made. We can only hope Sahra is no further disgrace to the tradition. Now - “ and here she turned her piercing gaze back to Sahra, “ - tell me, where _are_ your family from?”

 

“She just summoned me so she could disapprove of me in person, didn’t she?” said Sahra as they left the shop after nearly an hour of interrogation of Sahra’s forebears, family fortune, education and prowess in the police force.

 

“Look at it this way,” said Michael, “if she’s being thorough, it means she’s decided to become invested. You would never have got this far with _shifu._ ”

 

“Because I’m _wairen_?” Sahra’s Mandarin wasn’t too good, but she knew enough to parse that. Often the first thing you learnt in any language was what they called outsiders.

 

“Yes,” said Michael, simply. “Honestly, meeting my actual parents would be less stressful.”

 

“Do I have to meet your actual parents?”

 

“Um.” Michael blanched. “You don’t. Forget I said that. Do you want to get bubble tea?”

 

*

 

The first time Sahra got to apply what she was learning was on a raid, an average sort of raid in Clapton, some small-time robbery crew who’d let one of their jaunts devolve into a murder. They got two of them in the living room but the third - George Burns, white male - legged it. Sahra was on back-door duty and thus in a prime position to tackle Burns as he tried to vault the garden wall. They went down in a tangle of fists. Burns grabbed for her hijab, which ripped neatly away and sent him reeling. Sahra saw, as if in slow motion, the acupressure point at the back of his neck exposed; without even thinking she flicked it, then jabbed into his right flank. Burns toppled like a log and lay frozen on the ground.

 

Sahra felt like whooping, but restrained herself. Burns could see everything; while he was immobilised, he was still glaring at her in fury. Her elation lasted all the way through giving him the caution and putting him in cuffs - up till she realised that she could not unfreeze him.

 

“You didn’t Petrificus Totalus him, did you?” DC Carey wanted to know as Sahra rolled Burns onto his face, jabbing haplessly at what she had been very sure were his pressure points. “Isn’t that Falcon stuff?”

 

“It’s not a spell,” muttered Sahra.  

 

Finally, with the ambulance on its way as well as rising threat levels of Seawoll incoming, she gave up and called Michael.  

 

“Let me guess,” said Michael over the phone. “You did Great Hammer on the neck, then Will Chamber on the side.”

 

“I...think so?” Sahra poked the silently furious Burns again, to no avail. Carey watched, amused. “I tried reversing it, but it’s not working.”

 

“Makes no sense,” said Michael. “Oh, maybe he’s diabetic. Sometimes that messes with it. Try unblocking the point on his right arm above the elbow. You probably want to do it soon, or he’ll have an embolism.”

 

Sahra hastily followed his instructions. Burns reared back and started yelling his head off. “Fucking hell, what the fuck did you do to me - ”

 

“I’m guessing I was right,” said Michael dryly.

 

“Yeah,” said Sahra as Carey hauled Burns to his feet and started walking him towards the car, still yelling. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” said Michael. “Please rate your troubleshooting experience on a scale of one to five. If you would like to return to the drop-down menu, press zero.”

 

*

 

One time Sahra showed up for practice and Michael’s arm was in a bandage. “Chinatown business,” he said darkly when she asked.

 

“What business is that?” Sahra pressed. “And don’t say not mine, because I’ve been given to understand that if anything happens to you, it becomes my business, whether I like it or not.”

 

Michael sighed. “Don’t laugh.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“Ninjas are trying to kill me so their evil parent corporation can take over Chinatown for real estate development,” said Michael with a straight face.

 

“Are the ninjas...Japanese?” asked Sahra.

 

“I wish they weren’t,” said Michael with feeling, “because it feeds into every stereotype and grudge that the past few generations have held since World War II, but. Yes. They are Japanese.”

 

“I see,” said Sahra.

 

“Which is not to say they represent the Japanese community,” went on Michael carefully. “We are on good terms with the samurai.”

 

“There are samurai in London?”

 

“Of course,” said Michael. “They live mostly in Acton. They’ve been reluctant to get involved with the ninja problem, though.”

 

Sahra knew that Michael served as liaison to the rest of the demi-monde, but it was still a bit of a jolt to run into him outside of Chinatown while she was on the job. Peter had dragged her along to the Goblin Market as back-up while he hunted down some cursed medallion. He was trying to charm some of the fae stallholders into giving up a lead on who had it and she was trying to blend into the background while charting possible exit routes, when she glimpsed Michael two stalls over, looking through an array of tiny daggers.

 

He looked up and caught her gaze, startled. Michael was different outside of his domain - more careful, like a cat walking on loose tiles.

 

“Is that your bloke?” said Peter with interest.

 

“He’s not my - ugh.” Sahra followed Peter, who was striding over to Michael and saying with unwarranted effusiveness: “Michael, mate, how are you!”

 

“Hey,” said Michael warily.

 

They went through the brief courtesies of asking after Nightingale and the affairs of Chinatown, though it was clear Peter had burning questions.

 

“Do you carry that thing on the Tube?” Peter wanted to know, pointing at the sword.

 

“Yes,” said Michael shortly.

 

“And nobody’s ever stopped you?” Peter stared at the blade, fascinated. “Is there some kind of cloaking spell on it? Can we study it? For science?”

 

“I can break every bone in your hand with my little finger,” said Michael.

 

“Your boyfriend is well intense,” said Peter to Sahra.

 

“I _said_ he’s not my - ”

 

“That’s not what it - ”

 

They both shut up and stared at each other. “Riiiight,” said Peter, sidling away. “I’m just going to go look for my cursed medallion over here.”

 

“Sorry about that,” said Sahra once he was out of earshot.

 

“No, no,” said Michael, waving a hand, “it’s all - never mind. So, ah. See you on Sunday for practice?”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

“Nice meeting you here,” said Michael vaguely. “Also, your colleague is on fire.”

 

Sahra spun. Peter seemed to have not only found his cursed medallion but activated it, although he was now yelling and scooping the fire - bright violet - off him in handfuls, so it didn’t seem all that bad. Most of it was on the ground, fading, when Sahra reached him.

 

“You had to touch it, didn’t you,” said Sahra wearily. A quick look around told her that Michael had disappeared.

 

“The curse isn’t in the medallion, it’s in the bloody chain,” Peter retorted. “Don’t look at me like that.”

 

*

 

“We’re going to do a run,” said Michael on Sunday night.

 

They were standing on the rooftop of the Palace Theatre. It was 1am. Sahra was going to hate herself in about six hours when she was due at her nick, but now she did not care.

 

Michael pointed out over the rooftops of Soho. “Here to Oxford Street. No touching the ground till then.”

 

“What if we get caught?”

 

“Then you’re going to have fun explaining this to your colleagues. So, don’t.” Michael pulled the black cloth mask over his face and gestured for her to do the same.

 

“What do I get if I win?”

 

“It’s not about winning,” said Michael. “It’s about keeping up. C’mon.” He slipped off the ledge.

 

Sahra rolled her eyes, not that he could see, and followed suit.

 

It was a crisp night, not quite spring but warm enough to be out running in one layer. The mask clung to her face; she focussed on breathing through her nose. Ahead of her, Michael cleared Romilly Street roof to roof in a single leap. Sahra had been practising her _qinggong_ on the rooftops of Chinatown, which were all fairly close together; Soho, with its wider streets, made her anxious. She focussed her energy on the ball of her foot as the ledge hurtled towards her and thought, _up, up_.

 

She landed with room to spare, caught her breath and kept running. Old Compton Street was coming up; she braced herself. She knew Prince Edward Theatre had a protruding marquee this season and so she let herself fall from the edge of the roof opposite, bounced off a lamppost with her toes, pulled a somersault and hit the marquee. The rebound gave her enough height that her fingertips just about caught the theatre roof, and she was able to pull herself up.  

 

This wasn’t magic. It was the awakening of parts of her body she had not known existed, and then putting them all to work. It was wild and it was precise and she felt herself thrumming with the effort it took to balance those two ends of the spectrum. Things loomed out of the dark at her: chimneys, air vents, satellite dishes. She could sense Michael, keeping pace wraith-like to her left. They cleared Bateman Street at the same time and kept running towards the open space of Soho Square.

 

At the square they split. Michael dove into the trees. Sahra wasn’t good enough yet to manoeuvre through trees, which were treacherously prone to snapping or swaying, so she wasted some time on a detour around the square.  

 

She dropped onto Oxford Street and almost into the path of a crowd of drunk students, before she was yanked by the arm into a doorway.

 

“Careless,” said Michael. They were pressed close in the shadows of the doorway; his breath was against her ear. Sahra’s heart was still racing. They were both breathing hard. The students stumbled past, failed to notice them.

 

“How’d I do?”

 

This close to him, it was hard not to notice how lean he was, nearly every inch of him corded muscle. Michael swallowed visibly. “Yeah,” he said with studied casualness, “you did all right.”

 

A bus roared past. Michael cleared his throat and stepped out of the doorway, pulling off his mask as he went. “You said you had an early start tomorrow, didn’t you?”

 

“Oh,” said Sahra. “Yeah.”

 

“Right.” He seemed to be carefully not looking at her. “Best get you home, then.”

 

*

 

Sahra was trying not to dwell on whatever it was that had happened the other night when Michael rang her suddenly during her lunch break, which she was taking at her desk. “Are you off this Sunday?”

 

Sahra checked her desk calendar. “Yeah. Why?”

 

“I need you to go to a wedding with me,” said Michael.

 

There was a long silence.

 

“You’ll be compensated, of course,” added Michael.

 

“Why?” demanded Sahra. “Why would I be compensated for going to a wedding with you?”

 

“It’s just - ” Michael sighed noisily. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. It’s Cissy Wong’s wedding, she asked me to be there, so there’s bound to be drama. You don’t have to, of course. I’d just feel a lot better if you were there. Look, I’ve got to go, but I’ll tell you more when we’re there. I’ll text you the details. Don’t wear black, don’t wear white and absolutely do not wear red.”

 

Which answered none of Sahra’s burning questions. “I would feel a lot better,” she told Nightingale later, “if I knew what I was doing there.”

 

Nightingale considered this. “You mean whether he wants you there for operational or for personal reasons.”

 

“Yes,” said Sahra. “Or both. It could be both.”

 

“Sahra,” said Nightingale, “this is not something I can parse for you, I’m afraid.”

 

Sahra found herself wishing, not for the first time, that she could talk to Peter about this kind of thing. She wasn’t allowed to, of course - Nightingale’s orders - but she couldn’t help thinking that it might be helpful to get etiquette tips from the only other copper in London with this particular plus-one experience.

 

The wedding was at Wong Kei, which had a reputation for being the rudest restaurant in London. Sahra figured it must be a real mark of social status to be allowed to hold your wedding there. She had puzzled all night over wardrobe choices and wound up mixing her fanciest hijab - orange with gold thread - and its matching skirt with practical boots and her baton. She felt slightly less strange about it when she arrived and saw Michael hanging about the entrance in a three-piece suit that had been clearly custom cut so that he could wear the sword on his hip without ruining the lines of the suit. It was a distractingly good suit, and the sword did not help matters. Sahra gave herself a mental shake.

 

Michael was staring at her. Sahra gestured awkwardly at the baton clipped to her belt. “Didn’t fit in my purse.”

 

“No, it’s - it’s fine,” said Michael. “I mean. You look nice.”

 

“Um, thanks.”

 

He offered her his arm. Sahra took it self-consciously and they went in.

 

Sahra had honed her knack for blending into the background wherever she went, a useful skill for a copper, but here it was like jumping into a shark tank with an open wound. Every head turned to them as they stepped over the threshold. Michael ignored most of them and went up to the reception table, where a young woman in a magenta cheongsam rose to greet them. “ _Dai gor_ , thank god you’re here. They’ve just finished the tea ceremony, they’ll be on the way soon.”

 

“Thanks.” Michael installed himself behind an ornate receptacle that looked like a fancy postbox. People were dropping red packets into it. “This is Sahra, my apprentice.”

 

Julie extended a hand. “Julie, bridesmaid. Apprentice, is it?” She raised an eyebrow at Michael, who raised an eyebrow back. Julie cocked her head towards the crowd, said, “My sympathies. Brace yourselves” and then made herself scarce.

 

The reason for her warning soon became clear. A host of middle-aged to elderly ladies were descending on the reception table, looking significant and meaningful. “Michael!” exclaimed the one in the lead, who was in her fifties and laden with enough jade to drop a horse. “Look at you! You’ve grown so much!”

 

“Not really, Auntie Mok,” said Michael politely with gritted teeth.

 

“But still not eating enough,” went on Auntie Mok, patting the legendary swordsman of Chinatown on the cheek. She gestured towards the crowded restaurant, festooned with crimson decorations. “So, when is it your turn?”

 

“No idea,” said Michael. “Perhaps the Association will pay me more and then we’ll see.”

 

“You don’t say until like that,” put forth another. She turned to Sahra, eagle-eyed. “Who is this?”

 

“This is Sahra, my apprentice.”

 

The ladies tittered. “So slim!” they exclaimed. “So pretty!”  

 

“Such thick eyebrows,” said one, in a way that could have either been compliment or complaint.

 

“When he marries you,” put in another, “does he have to convert?”

 

“What,” said Sahra blankly.

 

“We are not getting married, Auntie Fong,” said Michael loudly, “that’s Cissy and Raymond, whom we are all here for.”

 

“Yes, yes, so good of you to be here for Cissy.” Auntie Fong stroked his hand. Michael stared at it in a kind of resigned horror. “Nice that you are still friends. You broke up when again?”

 

Fortunately at this point, Michael’s _shiniang_ made her entrance, something she was clearly very good at. She was in a forest green cheongsam with a single great peony blooming beneath her left shoulder. In her hand she held a large fan, shut. She parted the crowd seemingly without effort, peeled a red packet out of her purse, dropped it in a desultory fashion into the box while saying breezily, “I hope you are keeping an eye on your duties, Michael,” and then began to verbally corral the aunties. “Where is your table? We are not seated together? No, but you must tell me about your sister’s operation - ”

 

Michael began rubbing his temples. “That was so much worse than I expected.”

 

“Cissy Wong’s your ex?”

 

“We dated in _sixth form_.” Michael gestured dismissively at the crowd at large. “This is Cissy Wong we’re talking about. Her exes are thick on the ground.” He nodded at a cluster of people standing by the makeshift bar. One of them, a young man with a crew cut, had been staring at them - glowering, really.  He looked away when their eyes met. “That’s Allson Chan,” said Michael. “They were engaged for a year before she suddenly broke it off, saying she wasn’t ready. Then almost immediately she got together with Raymond. Now the Chans and the Wongs are feuding.”

 

“But they still came today,” said Sahra.  

 

“Of course.” Michael tapped his fingers restlessly on the sword hilt. “This is a Chinese wedding. I did say there was bound to be drama.”

 

There was a flurry of activity by the restaurant entrance as the bridal car pulled up and the bride and groom spilled out of it and began wading into the restaurant, beset on all sides by well-wishers. Michael had to stoop so Cissy Wong, tiny and tucked into a fluffy gown with a brimming sweetheart neckline, could fling her arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you for coming,” she breathed. “Oh my god, it’s such a nightmare. I bet half of them hate me right now.”

 

“You brought that entirely upon yourself,” replied Michael. “C’mon, let’s get you two through this.” He clapped Raymond on the back. “Congratulations, mate.”  

 

The bridal party inched forward slowly through the crush as everyone tried to get to them to hug them or shake their hands or passive-aggressively wish them well.  Sahra was thinking how this seemed like the worst thing to be doing on what was meant to be the happiest day of your life, when suddenly they heard Cissy scream.

 

Sahra vaulted the reception table and began elbowing her way through the crowd. Michael was already there, pulling people away from where Cissy was crouched, her gown pooling around her, clutching a prone Raymond. Michael dropped down next to her. “He just collapsed,” she was babbling, “we were shaking hands and he just collapsed!”

 

Raymond arched and spasmed. A trickle of blood came out of the corner of his mouth. Michael felt his pulse, then ripped open his shirt and felt for his ribs. “Needle,” he shouted, pulling something fine and glinting out of Raymond’s flesh. Madam Fang seemed to appear out of nowhere, her purse open; Michael dropped the needle into it. “Who were you shaking hands with last?” Michael demanded.

 

Cissy was staring around frantically. Her eyes caught on someone’s in the crowd. “No,” she breathed, “no, Allson, you _didn’t_.”

 

Allson Chan met her eyes with a cold fury. “If I can’t have you, Cissy, no one will.”

 

There were gasps around the room. “ _Yau mo gau chor_ ,” said someone in the back. Madam Fang rolled her eyes.

 

Sahra sighed. This, at least, was a situation she was familiar with. Happily she had thought to bring her cuffs. “Allson Chan,” she began, getting him into an armlock. Allson tried to stick her with another needle; she twisted his wrist and forced him to drop it. Madam Fang put the toe of her shoe on it. “Allson Chan,” Sahra went on, “you are under arrest for suspicion of - ”

 

“Take your hands off my son!” exclaimed a burly man whom Sahra assumed was the elder Mr Chan. He attempted to grab Sahra, but another man - Raymond’s father - shouted “Shame on your house!” then hauled back and punched him in the face. Sahra left them to it, cuffed Allson to a chair and, for good measure, called for backup.

 

Raymond spasmed again. His face was turning purple. “Do something!” Cissy shrieked at Michael. Tears were streaming down her face.

 

Michael appeared to come to a decision. “Get his shirt off,” he told Cissy. He unbuckled the sword and handed it to Sahra. “You’re up, I’m afraid.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Keep them safe,” Michael told her. He slid his own jacket off.

 

“No,” said Madam Fang. She pushed her way between them. “It’s too dangerous. Let me do it.”

 

“ _Shiniang_ ,” said Michael, tenderly. “Your heart.”

 

Madam Fang seemed speechless with fury, but she let Michael push her out of the way.

 

Michael sat down behind a shirtless Raymond, who was being propped into a sitting position by Cissy and one of the groomsmen. He slapped his palms against the flat of Raymond’s back.

 

Sahra had only briefly read about this in the manuals. There were kinds of poison you could purge by drawing them from the victim into your own body, like sucking venom from a snakebite - except it wasn’t a simple matter of spitting it out afterwards.

 

Madam Fang was tight-lipped with anxiety. Sahra realised she was gripping her sleeve.

 

The colour was slowly returning to Raymond’s face. Behind him, a shudder racked Michael. His veins were darkening under his skin.

 

A commotion by the entrance caught Sahra’s attention. A group of figures had entered the restaurant. There were ten of them, masked and all in black.

 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” said Sahra.  

 

The ninjas fanned out as wedding guests screamed and fled. “My son,” cried Allson’s father, falling to his knees by the chair Allson was cuffed to, “tell me you are not in league with this unorthodox sect!”

 

“They promised I would have her back,” mumbled Allson.

 

“Julie,” croaked Michael. He was trying to stand, but swaying on his feet. “Julie, get the rest of them out of here. Cissy, Alfred, take Raymond to the kitchen. Get the ambulance to meet you out back.”

 

“What about you?” said Cissy.  

 

Michael gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “It’s a bit late to think of that now, isn’t it?” And then, as she stared at him, stricken, “Seriously, Cissy, just go.”

 

“You all right?” said Sahra, hand on the sword hilt.

 

“God, no, I’m fucked,” said Michael. “Think you can take them?”

 

“Yeah, why not,” said Sahra, trying to keep her voice light. “I’ll take ten.”

 

Michael started laughing. He laughed so hard he coughed up blood. “If we survive this, we need to do a movie night.”

 

“Sit down, you stupid boy,” said Madam Fang. She had put down her purse and unfurled her fan.

 

Sahra drew the sword just as the ninjas rushed them.

 

There was a whisper, and a shining wave moved towards them. Before Sahra could even duck, Madam Fang had thrown her fan in a long arc that caught up the rain of throwing stars in its paper folds. She vaulted gracefully over Sahra’s head, snatched the fan out of the air and sent each star back in the direction it had come from, just as the first couple of ninjas reached Sahra.

 

The ninjas were not half as fast as Michael, but they were coming from all directions - though at least the tables were tightly packed enough that it was hard for more than one of them to come at her at once. Sahra, sword weaving, tried to keep track of them at first and throw up moves in response to them, reciting the names in her head - but then it began to seem as if the names of the moves and the forms of her attackers were flowing together as if in lines of poetry, or rather the chant of jiifto that her father would play from the scant handful of cassette tapes he had brought over to England. She spun, corkscrewing, into the air and sliced out at the two ninjas coming for her left and right flanks, then elbowed backward to get a third in the head.

 

Something burned along her back: a blade. She kicked it from its owner’s hand and dove away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Madam Fang shut her fan and stab it handle-first into a ninja’s eye before they could reach Michael, who was now slumped over one of the tables.

 

Her back was on fire; Sahra bundled that information into a corner of her brain to deal with later, ducked and thrust and jabbed the sword hilt back to block another blow. It was all going terribly, but something inside her was singing. The sword cut beautifully - sweet, silken strokes. It was not hers, and knew it, but graciously tolerated her anyway, like a polite horse.

 

She turned to see one of the ninjas, who had got past Madam Fang, bring their dagger down upon Michael. Michael’s hand shot out and caught their forearm. He was pale as a sheet and trembling, but he was slowly forcing their arm back. The ninja added their other hand. Michael spat blood on all the hands involved and slid off the chair, sending the dagger into the table. He rolled clear just as Sahra reached them and sliced through the ninja’s hamstrings.

 

“You’re doing so well,” said Michael into the floor.

 

“Well, you’re not, are you?” retorted Sahra. The ninjas were regrouping, those not busy with Madam Fang on the other side of the restaurant advancing on them in a half-circle.  

 

At which point the shriek of sirens cut through the air, followed by the incredibly welcome sound of Miriam Stephanopoulos on the loudhailer: “STEP OUT OF THE RESTAURANT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.”

 

The ninjas looked at one another, and then - melted away. They simply moved towards all the available exits and were gone without a sound, even the one Sahra should by rights have crippled.

 

Sahra collapsed on the ground next to Michael and rolled him over. “Boss, it’s me,” she shouted. “They’ve gone.”

 

Miriam came in with the rest of the squad, looked at her and said, “Sahra, I don’t even want to know.”

 

Sahra realised that she was sitting on the floor with a sword in her hand, a gash in her back and her _shifu_ ’s head in her lap. “I’ll explain in a bit.”

 

“I look forward to reading it in your paperwork,” said Miriam. “Of which I expect there will be acres. Ambulance is on its way.”

 

“He’s not going to the hospital,” said Madam Fang, opening one of the wet tissue packets on the tables and cleaning her fan with it.

 

“I’m sure the NHS is competent enough to...deal with whatever this is,” said Miriam.

 

“Your faith in your country’s systems is extraordinary,” said Madam Fang, sliding the fan back into her purse. “Also misplaced.”

 

Sahra left them to thresh it out. “How do we get you cured?” she asked Michael.

 

“It’ll take a good week at least,” said Michael faintly. “I’m keeping my organs from failing through pure inner strength right now.”

 

“Sorry,” said Sahra. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk, if it’s distracting you.”

 

“You’re distracting enough as it is,” said Michael. “Have been, from the start. You’re very lovely, Sahra.”

 

“You’re delirious,” said Sahra.

 

“Probably,” said Michael. “I thought you should know anyway. I’d kiss you right now, except I’m full of poison and your boss is right there.”

 

“She is,” said Sahra. “I think she’s going to try to take your _shiniang’s_ statement though, so that’s going to keep her occupied for a bit.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Knock it off, you two,” said Miriam some time later. “I know you’ve had a near-death experience and all, but I will not have snogging at my crime scene.”

 

*

 

As a compromise, Michael was warded at UCH under the care of Dr Walid, who listened to and then did not follow Madam Fang’s various esoteric instructions (“no, _shiniang_ , we are _not_ doing the ice bed again”).

 

While he was laid low, Sahra patrolled Chinatown. This mostly meant strolling around with the sword on her hip, sometimes stopping to buy bubble tea. They wouldn’t accept payment from her any more, either. She would push the money across the counter, only to have them push it back, and then when she insisted, seem to forget that she existed at all. When she tried to leave the money on the counter, they ran after her and stuffed it in her purse or, once when she was getting into a cab, threw the money through the half-open window and ran away. Sahra stopped trying to pay for things after that because honestly, Chinese people.

 

By the end of the week, Michael was well enough to walk unaided. When Sahra came to see him, he was sitting by the window while Madam Fang poured a measure from a flask of double-boiled soup. Madam Fang did not approve of hospital food.

 

“Sahra,” she said without preamble, “open that bag.”

 

It was a faded Westfields shopping bag. Sahra unfolded it and removed a paper-wrapped bundle. In it was a beautiful black silk bomber jacket, embroidered on the back with a white tiger. Sahra stared at it, lost for words.

 

“Put it on so I can see if it fits,” said Madam Fang tersely.

 

Sahra slid on the jacket, feeling the silk ripple against her skin. “Thank you,” she said, hardly daring to move in it. "It's lovely."

 

“I should hope so,” said Madam Fang. “Drink your soup, Michael - ” for he was grinning with abandon as Sahra spun slowly in the jacket and turned to catch herself in the sliver of mirror in the ward bathroom “ - or it will get cold.”

 

*

 

“Michael Cheung!” bellowed the man in the street. “Get the fuck out here, Michael Cheung!”

 

“Drugs,” said Sahra reproachfully. “Not really your shout, is it?”

 

“It is if it goes through my territory,” replied Michael in between sips of tea. A waitress stopped by to refill it, seemingly unbothered by the large group of armed men standing outside her dimsum restaurant shouting her patron’s name. “What am I supposed to do, pretend it’s not happening?”

 

“Where’s your legendary swordsman now, huh?” the man was shouting. He and his crew were toting some heavy sticks and a couple of crowbars between them, but happily no firearms seemed imminent. “Come on!”

 

“What do you reckon?” said Michael conversationally.

 

“I reckon the drug squad will be properly ticked off if I take their collar.”

 

“But you think you can take them.”

 

“Oh, of course.”

 

“Right then,” said Michael. “The sword could use a proper debut.”

 

Sahra’s sword had finally arrived a week ago. Despite Peter’s many predictions, she had not had to pull it out of a stone or receive it from a woman in a lake. He had been very miffed to discover they had simply ordered it online.

 

“He didn’t seriously get your sword off eBay, did he?”

 

“It was Taobao, actually. Where you can apparently get hand-forged blades from Longquan at a pretty decent rate. I will say, though, that the shipping is a nightmare.”

 

Now Sahra rose, slinging the sword onto her back. Michael watched her appreciatively.

 

“Want any more shrimp dumplings?” he inquired.

 

“Nah,” said Sahra. “Could do with a couple of egg tarts though.”

 

Michael turned to get the waitress’s attention. Sahra stepped outside.

 

“Look,” she said evenly to those gathered, “I just want to get on with my tea, so if you all move along now then I won’t have to caution anyone.”

 

The leader squinted at her. “You’re not the legendary swordsman of Chinatown.”

 

“No,” said Sahra. She slid her blade meaningfully out of its hilt as she spoke. “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to stop disturbing the peace.”

 

He looked from her to her sword, and then hefted his own weapon, a nasty-looking studded bat.

 

“Oh well,” said Sahra. She moved into her opening stance. She would admire later the way the afternoon sun, rare for this time of year, gleamed on the yet-unmarred blade. But first, the work. “Come on then. I don’t have all day.”

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline for this fic is fuzzy - just assume it begins post-The Hanging Tree and continues somewhere into mid-Lies Sleeping. Realistically it would not be possible to become a martial arts expert within this timeframe but this is in fact what happens in many Jin Yong novels and everything I know about wuxia I learnt from Jin Yong.
> 
> The Legend Continues was the name of an actual restaurant in Chinatown, which was around the corner from Leong’s Legend.
> 
> Madam Fang’s mention of Yang Guo and Xiaolongnü from Jin Yong’s The Legend Of The Condor Heroes refers to how Xiaolongnü became Yang Guo’s lover despite being his teacher, which the wulin deemed inappropriate.
> 
> Michael starts laughing when Sahra says “I’ll take ten” because she has made an unwitting reference to the immortal [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upwyWKzozII) from Ip Man in which Donnie Yen challenges ten Japanese fighters at once.
> 
> In my headcanon, Madam Fang is Michelle Yeoh.
> 
> Glossary of Chinese terms:  
> Wuxia 武侠 - the genre of martial arts heroic epic  
> Wugong 武功 - martial arts skill  
> Wulin 武林 - literally “martial forest”; refers to the pugilistic community  
> Qinggong 轻功 - literally “lightness skill”; a technique used to defy gravity  
> Bai wo wei shi 拜我为师 - take me as your teacher  
> Shifu 师父 - teacher, in a martial arts sense  
> Shiniang 师娘 - term of endearment for the wife of your teacher  
> Shipo 师婆 - your grand-teacher’s wife  
> Wairen 外人 - outsider  
> Huijiaotu 回教徒 - Muslim  
> Dai gor 大哥 - Cantonese for big brother  
> Yau mo gau chor 有冇搞錯 - Cantonese for “you have got to be kidding me”; endlessly applicable


End file.
